by Beth Goobie
At the same time, she could feel that something fundamental had changed. The thick heaviness that had possessed her since Aunt Sancy’s Friday evening revelations was gone, leaving her once again with an inner rawness—a sensation of being bruised and sore, but also of having come through a difficult experience and kicked free of it. Turning, she stared fixedly at the downed photograph on her night table.
Maybe my surname is Polk, she thought. But from now on I am a Goonhilly. I don’t care who you were—you’re dead and gone, not part of me anymore. I won’t let you be.
Taking a deep breath, she strode from the room.
The following morning, Meredith walked into home form to find Morey and Gene deep in discussion. To her relief, Seymour’s chair was empty, but no sooner had she sat down behind the drums than the Mol sauntered in and took his seat below her. Not once did he glance at her but, even so, Meredith found herself stiffening under an ugly wash of ... well, she thought grimly, whatever feelings were still hanging around since last Thursday’s hallway mouth-clicking episode. Not that Seymour had given any sign of noticing her discomfort—upon his arrival, Morey and Gene had ditched their conversation and turned to him, anticipation animating their faces.
“Hey!” said Morey. “How was the biology field trip?”
Seymour smirked. “Interrupted,” he drawled.
“So I heard,” said Morey. “They take you away in cuffs like Pribram and Rogo?”
Seymour snorted. “You think I’m that stupid?” he asked.
“Not usually,” said Gene, his tone dry.
“Nah,” said Seymour, stretching out his arms and cracking his knuckles. “Take it from the Mol—an orange jumpsuit is not the way I intend to spend one nanosecond of my wonderful life.”
Wide-eyed, her gaze fixed on him, Meredith was sucking in every word. Questions crowded her tongue but she held on, knowing her slightest comment could silence the Mol indefinitely.
“So what did you do?” probed Morey. “Dump your stash in the bush?”
“Sniffer dogs,” Seymour said dismissively. “Basic rule of thumb: If you’ve gotta dump, head for the river.”
“Ah!” Morey said knowingly, and the final bell rang, annihilating further conversation. As the national anthem kicked in, Meredith sat mulling over what she had just heard. Handcuffs, an orange jumpsuit, and sniffer dogs—they had to be talking about a drug bust, and apparently it was one that had taken place during a biology class field trip this past weekend.
Opening her binder, she pulled a Caramilk wrapper from the inside pocket, turned it over, and wrote across the back: What are you guys talking about? Then she passed the wrapper to Gene.
Eyebrows raised, he scanned her note and scrawled a response. Before returning the wrapper, he lifted it to his nose, took a hefty sniff, and rolled his eyes blissfully heavenward. With a giggle, Meredith accepted the wrapper and read what he had written in reply: Pot fest on the biology field trip.
And the cops were called in? Meredith wrote back.
Cops and dogs, Gene replied. Couldn’t see the forest for the weed.
Curiously, Meredith studied the back of Seymour’s oblivious head. Then she wrote: Just weed?
Mostly, Gene replied. Some speed, maybe some acid. That’s what I’ve heard.
They had run out of space on the wrapper. Meredith started to tuck it back into her binder pocket, then was hit by a new question. Shooting Gene a glance, she once again extracted the wrapper, located a small, empty area at the top, and wrote: What do you think about it?
Gene took a moment to respond, frowning slightly and playing with his pen. Then, turning the candy wrapper over, he wrote I deal with what’s real across the front, and handed the note back to her.
Puzzled, Meredith reread the note several times. It could, she decided, mean a number of things. So, as the last PA announcement was drawing to a conclusion, she scrawled, What do you mean? and passed him the wrapper again.
Gene looked taken aback. Quickly he scribbled something and passed her the wrapper.
Flattening it onto her binder, Meredith scanned his response: Drugs lie. Two words, that was the sum total of it, but their impact felt like a two-ton truck. Tell me about it! she wanted to scream as the image of a mangled guardrail flashed through her mind. Instead, she sat aimlessly folding one corner of the Caramilk wrapper back and forth and fighting off the sting of tears.
A hand touched her arm, and she looked up to see Gene observing her. “You all right?” he asked, but before she could reply, Mr. Woolger rose to his feet.
“Class,” the teacher said briskly. “As you will recall, you still need to elect a representative to Student Council. You’ve had all weekend to consider the situation. Do we have a volunteer?”
Silence greeted his request. Face in neutral, Mr. Woolger had obviously been expecting this response. “Come, come,” he said, making an attempt at congeniality. “It’s only for the first semester. We’ll get someone else to take over halfway through the year.”
The silence continued unrelieved, and Mr. Woolger stood, conducting vaguely as he waited the class out. “Come, come,” he repeated coaxingly. “Do you want to be the only home form in the school that doesn’t have a representative?”
No ripple of shame disturbed the class; even their vital signs seemed to have deserted them. Finally, after an excruciating pause, Gene raised his hand. “I’ll do it, sir,” he said. “For the first semester.”
Relief flooded Mr. Woolger’s face and he said, “Thank you, Gene. Student Council’s general meetings are Tuesday lunch hour, so they won’t conflict with Jazz Band practices.” Then, sitting down, he buried himself in desk work, the matter dismissed from his thoughts.
“Hey!” said Morey. Turning in his seat, he handed Gene a sheet of foolscap that had been torn from his binder.
“What’s this?” asked Gene, scanning it.
Morey looked hurt. “It’s a bouquet of flowers,” he said pointedly. “Drawn by my own hand, as thanks for your sacrifice.”
“Oh!” said Gene, turning the page this way and that. “Yeah, now I see it—a couple of dandelions and a thistle. And what’s this?” Dramatically, he turned the page upside-down and exclaimed, “A daisy! How did you know that’s my favorite flower? Thanks, Morey.” Leaning forward, he gently patted Morey’s shoulder.
Feigning further distress, Morey puffed out his lower lip. “I am wounded,” he mumbled, turning to face the front of the room. “I draw you art from my heart, and what do I get in return? Mockery.”
Seymour snorted. “Take it from me, Mor,” he said sagely. “Class rep for half a year—that’s a bouquet of roses, at least.”
“Can’t draw roses,” pouted Morey.
“Can’t draw dandelions, either,” Gene said mercilessly.
The bell rang, and the class erupted into a cacophony of shifting chairs and footsteps. “Hey!” called a voice as Meredith started to step down off the third riser. Turning back, she saw it was Gene. “Now those are real flowers!” he proclaimed cheerfully. “Next time you get the urge to draw some, Mor—copy Meredith’s daffodils.”
At once Meredith felt it—multiple eyes focusing on her butt. Although this had been going on now for almost a week, today the eyes—at least these specific eyes—felt different, more personal. A flush shot through her but she fought it off determinedly, turning her back to Morey, then placing a hand on one hip and striking a jaunty pose.
“Sorry,” she said, glancing back at him. “No roses.” And she stepped off the riser.
“Wait a minute, Meredith!” called Gene, coming after her.
Surprised, she turned to face him. As the rest of the class headed for the door, he came to a halt beside her. Tall, thought Meredith, looking up at him. Maybe not as tall as Seymour, but he definitely had height where a Goonhilly did not.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice low.
“Oh, yeah,” Meredith assured him. Unaccountably, she was once again flushing. “It’s the rain hat
, y’know—I’m not used to it yet. Flowers on my butt ...” She shrugged.
Gene shook his head. “No,” he said. “I meant the note. The last thing I wrote—you seemed ... upset, maybe, when you read it.”
“Oh,” said Meredith. Without warning, the stinging was back in her eyes. “It made me think of something, I guess. But I’m okay now, really.”
“Okay,” nodded Gene. “Well, I’d better get going, then. See you.”
Turning, he headed for the door. Just as he reached it, memory erupted within Meredith. “Hey!” she called after him. “Your audition—did you ever have it?”
Gene grimaced. “Mr. Waltzing Spider Fingers,” he called back. “Chang walked away with it. I’ve gotta grow more knuckles.” Lifting a hand, he disappeared through the doorway.
Huh, thought Meredith, watching him go. Though Gene’s tone had been calm, even cheerful, his initial grimace had been real enough—he had obviously wanted to make the youth orchestra. The guy knew how to lose.
Pensive, she started toward the door.
It was five to twelve, and Meredith had stepped into a washroom en route to her locker, her thoughts on the large wedge of fudge she had packed with her bag lunch. The last piece from Saturday night’s batch, she and her aunt had bartered over it that morning at breakfast, Aunt Sancy finally wringing a commitment from Meredith to wash down the porch as compensation.
“You get the cavities,” she had said complacently when Meredith had conceded. “And I get to put up my feet and watch you work. When you’re finished, we’ll start painting ... September gold.”
Meredith smiled ruefully at the memory, realizing her aunt had probably planned out the discussion in advance. Still, she was always assigned one major chore to do on the weekend, and she knew Aunt Sancy was unlikely to give her a second in addition to cleaning the porch. So in the end, she thought, as she pushed open a stall door, her aunt had basically handed over a monster piece of fudge for free, without haggling for a thin slice, even a corner nibble.
Setting her binder on the floor, she straightened and reached for the rain hat chin-strings, intending to untie them. But instead of crinkly plastic, her fingers encountered only the denim of her jeans. Disbelievingly, she slid her hands around her waist but couldn’t feel the rain hat anywhere, and when she peered over a shoulder, searching for some sign of it, nary a daffodil could be seen parading across her butt.
It can’t be! Meredith thought incredulously. I tied the strings with a double knot—I know I did.
Wide-eyed, she leaned against the stall wall, riding out a minor wave of shock. Not that the loss of the rain hat was incurring major psychological damage or anything, she thought defensively. It was just a stocking stuffer, worth no more than a couple of dollars. All the same, it was hers—not public property. More to the point, what with last week’s scrutiny and constant comments, she had found herself growing fond of the rain hat, bonding with it, even. There was no way around it—that rain hat had been her ally in time of need and now it was gone, its spritely yellow determination simply ... vanished.
How? she thought, still leaning against the stall wall. The rain hat couldn’t have fallen off—she knew without a doubt that she had double-knotted the chin-strings. And it simply wasn’t possible that someone could have unknotted it without her noticing. So what had the culprit used to get it off—a quick tug while she was navigating hallway crowds? The tip of a pen to tear the plastic? A pair of scissors?
Dull nausea swept Meredith, and she sat down on the toilet. The problem with a butt, she thought miserably, was that it was difficult to keep an eye on. Unless she wanted to scuttle crablike along a hall with her back constantly to a wall, her butt was always wide open. The only time she was safe was when she was seated, but she couldn’t keep her butt continually planted. Head in hands, Meredith sat riding out her dismay. The weirdest thing, she thought listlessly, her eyes closed, is how stupid this whole thing is. I mean, it’s just a rain hat and a set of drums, but it’s taking over my whole life. Why is Seymour putting so much effort into this? And why am I?
Gradually, as she sat head in hands, her discouragement faded and her body returned to working mode. Getting to her feet, she cautiously fingered the rear seam of her jeans. No gum, she thought, swamped with relief. At least, not yet.
Well, so much for enjoying a massive fudge sugar-fix in the cafeteria. Her lunch hour mission was now obvious—to locate Dean and Reb, then head to the nearest drugstore in search of a replacement rain hat. Preferably one with flowers, she thought, her interest beginning to stir. Bright, no, brilliant blossoms. And under no condition was she buying a rain hat with ducks on it—with the way Neil Sabom’s mind worked, she could just imagine the rhyme scheme he would come up with.
After using the toilet, she picked up her binder and headed out into the lunch-hour halls.
chapter 12
A lunch-hour trip to a nearby Shoppers Drug Mart proved to be a bust, but a visit later that afternoon to a downtown dollar store was successful, leading to a bin full of rain hats, each in its own pocket-sized plastic envelope. The rain hats’ decorative designs included everything from Tweety Bird to the Simpsons, and narrowing down choices was a daunting task, but, in the end, Meredith selected four, of which her favorite featured thunderclouds with red zigzagging lightning bolts.
“The ultimate in pissed-off!” she declared triumphantly as she, Dean, and Reb left the store. “No one’ll dare come near me in this.”
“Maybe,” countered Dean. “I still think you should’ve bought the rain hat that had the target with an arrow stuck in it. It’s better than the one you got with the seven dwarves.”
“A target on my butt?” demanded Meredith. “No thanks!”
“Deanie,” Reb said reprovingly. “Use your brain.”
“Okay,” replied Dean. “How’s this for genius—duct tape! Use it to tape a rain hat to your butt, and the next time someone tries to cut off the rain hat, the tape will keep it in place.”
Meredith frowned, considering, then asked, “But they’ll be able to tell, won’t they? They’ll see the tape all around the rain hat.”
“Under the rain hat, Mere,” Dean said pointedly. “Wrap a piece of duct tape into a circle, stick one side of it to your butt and the other to the inside of the rain hat, and ... voilà!”
Understanding coursed through Meredith, and with it radiant relief. As simple as that, her problem had been solved. “Deanie, you are a genius!” she cried, throwing her arms around her friend and smacking her one on the cheek. “I am hereby announcing that I am calling Walt Disney and telling them to add an extra dwarf to the seven dwarves—one called Smarty that looks just like you. You’ll be a major star—Smarty, the eighth dwarf!”
Dean beamed. “Major culture shock,” she said. “Smarty, the Asian dwarf.”
“Oh, yeah,” Reb said musingly. “So, let’s see—that’d make it Smarty, Sleepy, and Doc. And then there’d be Grumpy, Lumpy, and Dumpy. And, of course, Itchy ...”
“... and Bitchy,” continued Meredith, catching Reb’s drift. “And don’t forget Farty and Burpy, and—”
“Hey!” exclaimed Dean, cutting her off. “Thanks a lot—Smarty and Farty! Can’t you come up with a better rhyme scheme than that?”
“And Itchy and Bitchy,” Reb reminded her complacently.
“And no more gum on my bum!” sang out Meredith, raising two clenched fists. “My problem is solved. My agony is over. Life can now begin again. I feel it, I feel it—I’m about to take up massive space!”
In spite of her optimism, however, the thunder-and-lightning rain hat disappeared before she reached home form the following morning. Meredith felt it the second it went missing—a jerk, followed by a sharp tug—but by the time she had whirled around, the culprit was nowhere to be seen. Halfway along the hall leading to her locker, Meredith pivoted frantically under an overhead security camera, but there was no sign of the thunder-and-lightning rain hat anywhere—clutched in a hand, s
hoved into a back pocket, even trampled underfoot.
A heaviness descended onto her—remorseless, without end. Then a passing student clipped her shoulder, and the random carelessness seemed aggressive, personal. Ducking her head, Meredith shuffled to the wall and stood with her back to it as she slid a hand tentatively across her butt. Freshly warm from someone’s mouth, she felt it immediately—a gum wad, sticky and OOZING! as Mr. Woolger would have put it.
Heat swarmed her face. The bastards! she thought. It’s so ... mean. I bet they don’t even think about what they’re doing. They’re like a machine, or a horde of soldier ants. Seymour just has too many friends. They’re everywhere and I can’t avoid them—I have to walk through the halls. If they keep this up, I’m going to be covered in gum wads—plastered in them.
It was a grim, ugly truth, and there was no way around it. Shoulders slumped, Meredith stood blinking back tears. Stuck to her butt, the gum wad felt like a malignant tumor. What do I do? she wondered miserably. Go to the nearest washroom, pull off the gum, then tie on the rain hat with the seven dwarves? Who am I kidding? It’ll be five minutes maybe before Sleepy and Grumpy are pulled off. No, make that thirty seconds.
And then it came to her—quiet, insistent, a kind of inner shift. This shift carried a bruised sensation, but also a flash of knowing similar to one she had experienced once in grade school, when several bullies had backed her into a wall and taken a few swings: This was going to hurt, yeah—but she would survive ... and they would not. As in, the bullies confronting her that day would never be anything but exactly what they were then; they didn’t have the capacity to change, and would go through the rest of their lives stuck on repeat.
But she would not. And although the problem currently facing her wasn’t one easily solved—still, she was now, as she had been in grade school, completely free to react to it in any manner she chose. She could be predictable, and wrap herself in another defensive rain hat—Grumpy, Burpy, or whoever, she thought dismissively. That, however, would dig her deeper into the rut she had been inhabiting for the past week, and she was tired of that rut. Tight, constrictive ... it was boring. She wanted space. She wanted to burst out of herself, shouting and singing. If there had to be a dwarf parading across her butt, she wanted it to be Happy, for God’s sake!